


A Question Of Silence

by LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst with a Happy Ending, Catholic Guilt, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Family Drama, Frottage, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Or as happy as possible, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outdoor Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Philosophy, Religious Conflict, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 16:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9332963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch/pseuds/LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch
Summary: England, March 1343: A new student enters the gates of St. Mary’s Well monastery. Dean Winchester struggles with his family's dark secret and the taint he's sure it left on his soul. He finds a friend in the young novice Castiel, who has pledged himself to a life of austerity and contemplation. In spite of being polar opposites in nearly every way, they fall for each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is very loosely based on a novel by Hermann Hesse, [Narcissus and Goldmund](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Narcissus_and_Goldmund). I read this story as a teenager and a while ago I had the idea that it would work perfectly as a Destiel AU. 
> 
> A warning: I'm an atheist and have Strong Opinions on religion that will have an impact on how I tell this story. If you want to discuss these topics, I'm happy to do that on my [tumblr](procasdeanating.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> As always, I would be so thankful if you'd tell me how you liked it! Please let me know if I forgot to tag something.

 

 

The mist clung to the slope of the hills with the bone white fingers of a drowning man. Dean was thankful for the horse under his thighs, warm and alive in the dim half-world of the early March morning. He lost sight of the figure in front of him from time to time. The broad back of his father, stiff and proud, was swallowed by long tendrils of fog whenever they fell more than two horses lengths apart.

They had saddled up when the first orange hues of dawn had crept through the trees behind the house. Now, the sun rose higher above the horizon, a sickly yellow, too weak to dissipate the moisture and the mist.

Two hours after they had set off, the rectangular lines of a massive stone building became visible in the distance. Dean grabbed the reins tighter on impulse. The horse felt his unease and danced a bit, before Dean brought it back under control with a gentle nudge of his thighs.

“Almost there,” his father announced. His tone carried his conviction that Dean needed the hint, as if even detecting a building this size was above his mental capability.

Dean blew out a huff and drew in his shoulders. The cold had seeped deep into his bones. He had fought John’s decision tooth and nail for weeks. Now he just wanted to have it over with. If this new part of his life was inevitable, better to start it right now than rail against his fate.

 

+++

 

The usually light brown sandstone that made up St. Mary’s Well monastery was dark and slick with moisture. An open gate led to an inner courtyard surrounded by simple but well maintained buildings. The small church took up the whole left side of the compound. The main portal was to be entered from outside so that the monks and the people of the nearby village didn’t have to mingle. A small door at the back led to the courtyard. When Dean and his father entered, that door opened. An older monk emerged and came over to greet them.

“Father Robert,” John addressed him. “It’s good to see you again. This is my son, Dean.”

Dean swung his left leg over the horse’s back and slid down its side. He took a few steps and extended his hand. Father Robert took it with a firm grip. He held on to Dean’s hand while he examined him.

“You’re quite old.” His voice rumbled accusingly.

“Yes, I told you that,” John said, irritation clear in the clipped consonants. “I can’t do anything about it. If the church wants one of my sons, this is the one she gets.” John hadn’t dismounted and didn’t show any sign that he would. Dean blushed, embarrassed by his father’s rude behavior.

Father Robert’s gaze moved between the two of them. He sighed and let go of Dean’s hand. “Well, we will see what we can do with you.” His big palm landed on Dean’s shoulder. “Say goodbye to your father, child, and then go to the kitchen. You look like you can use a bowl of hot broth.” He turned and shuffled over to the door of a drab stone building. Its chimneys added tufts of white to the still misty air.

When the monk was out of sight, Dean went over to his father and waited, head bent.

John released one of his harsh grunts that Dean had come to hate. The sound condensed John’s lengthy lectures about how much of a disappointment his son was.

Dean didn’t look up.

His father inhaled and started, “alright then. I hope you will behave yourself and clear the stain your mother left on our family’s name. It’s your chance to do something right for a change.”

He paused. Dean finally lifted his gaze and met his father’s cold eyes. “Goodbye, father.”  

John seemed to debate saying more, but in the end he just nodded, dug his heels into the flanks of his mare and left. Dean took a deep breath, before he led his horse to the stable to take care of her. He leaned against the warm flank for a minute or two, letting the choking lump of self-pity rise in his throat. He would not give in to the tears that pricked at the corners of his eyes. Straightening, he steeled himself. Time to face his future head-on.

 

+++

 

When he entered the kitchen, the stifling warmth greeted him like a second wall. Half covered by the big fireplace, he met the eyes of a blond woman. A _woman_?

“You can close your mouth and get over here. Bobby says you need something warm in your belly.” Her rough voice couldn’t disguise the caring undertone, but Dean knew better than to call her on it. He crossed the room in three long strides and took the wooden bowl she handed him.

“You can sit by the fire,” she grumbled, head already bowed over a pile of parsnips that she hacked into pieces with a vigor that was uncalled for in Dean’s opinion.

“Yes, thank you, ma-…”

“Don’t madam me, son. I’m Ellen. Eat.”

The broth was fat and full of flavor and so hot Dean burned his lips on the first sip. Just when he had just reached the bottom, the door flew open and a skinny boy with a mop of dark blond hair fell through it. He beamed at Dean as he came to a stumbling halt in front of him. “Nice to meet you, I’m Garth.”

Dean gulped down the last drops of broth, wiped his hand and held it out to the newcomer. “Dean.”

“I know, I know. I’m here to bring you to father Robert.” Garth shifted his weight – which couldn’t be much – from one foot to the other. Dean brought his bowl over to Ellen and thanked her again, before he followed Garth.

 

+++

 

Dean was fifteen years old, eight years older than the youngest students in the monastery. He could write and knew enough arithmetic to run his father’s business when John traveled. He had basic knowledge of the bible, and his mother had taught him some bits and pieces of Greek philosophy. Father Robert listened to his summary, rubbing his closed eyes with his fingertips as if he wanted to fend off a growing headache.

“I have to be honest, I don’t know what to do with you, boy. You don’t have enough Latin for our novice’s class, but you’re too advanced to sit with the villagers.” He let his hands fall onto the table. “What do _you_ want?”

 _I don’t want to be here_ , Dean thought, but he would never say it out loud. His father wanted him to become a monk and pay for his mother’s sins. Most of all, Dean suspected, his father wanted him out of his sight, because his oldest son reminded him too much of _her_.

Even if he felt miserable, he knew he had gotten a chance here. John could have decided to throw him out on the streets, or hire him off to another merchant. Here, Dean had a choice. He could learn and maybe even go to university.

And so he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Dialectics.”

Father Robert’s brows drew together until they made up a single line of salt and pepper bristles. “Do you know anything about the philosopher?”

“My mom use to tell me about his works. I don’t know much, but I’d like to learn more.”

“Alright. I’ll send you to Castiel then. He’s our youngest tutor, not ordained yet. But he’s the only one versed enough in Greek to teach it. You’ll attend his bible lectures and geometrics, too.”

He fell silent and watched Dean closely. “When you’re not learning, you can help me with the bookkeeping and give Ellen a hand in the kitchen. I will think of other chores. No go with Garth. He’ll show you the refectory and the dormitory and give you your garments. Questions?”

“No, Father Robert.”

“Then go.”

 

+++

 

Garth led him through the various buildings, chatting away happily, pointing out trivia about the life in St. Mary’s Well. Dean stayed quiet and tried to memorize the layout and the function of each part of the monastery. He knew the stables, the church and the prior’s rooms which all lay on the left side of the courtyard. The kitchen and the refectory where the fifty inhabitants of the monastery ate their meals took up the middle.

Next to that came the dormitory. Lay brothers and monks slept in two large halls, a narrow straw-filled cot for each of them. Garth told Dean to leave his few belongings – two spare shirts, his winter coat and his woolen cap – by his assigned sleeping place.

The last building was the school. Like the church, it could be entered from outside the monastery’s outer walls. About twenty children from the nearby village attended the classes and learned to read and write. Garth passed two rooms and stopped in the doorway of a third. Dean came up behind him and peeked over his shoulder. About twelve students – aged between ten and fifteen – sat on the floor and listened, obviously enraptured by their tutor's lecture.

The young man couldn’t be much older than Dean. Dark brown hair swept over his head in thick unruly waves. He was tall, not quite as tall as Dean, and lean under the black novice’s habit. Elegant hands with long fingers gestured as he pointed out an interesting word choice in the text they discussed. A straight nose gave his face a stern expression that was softened by a wide mouth with chapped pink lips. Dean couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying but kept staring at those lips as if they could reveal unknown truths all on their own.

After long minutes, the tutor noticed them standing in the doorway and interrupted his lecture before turning to them. Dean, who had been transfixed by his lips, only now saw that they weren’t the most remarkable feature in his face. Dark blue eyes found his and locked on, so full of curiosity and intelligence that Dean began to squirm under the scrutiny.

Garth cleared his throat and took a step into the room. “Castiel, this is Dean. He will be staying with us and attempt the tenure as a lay brother.” Castiel’s gaze drifted to Garth. He beckoned with his hand to the center of the room.

“Come in, Dean, and sit down. We will have time to talk later.”

Dean rounded Garth and sat down close to the wall. Castiel waited for the others to quiet down. Two seconds later, the room fell silent.

Castiel dropped his gaze like he wanted to gather his scattered thought from the floor. When he looked back up, his sharp stare fixated on Dean for a moment before it flitted away.

“What did we learn about the sophists and their use of rhetoric?” Twelve hands went up. Castiel chose one of the students, a slim boy with blond hair. “Yes, Jonathan?”

 

+++

 

A few hours later, Dean had learned that he loved to learn, and that learning was exhausting. He fell onto his cot completely drained. He had to be up in the middle of the night again for the first service of the day, vigil. He couldn’t remember having to get up at two o’clock before – the day at home had started around six.

Despite his fatigue, his mind still raced. He tried to find a comfortable position on the straw-filled mattress and snuggled under the scratchy blanket to keep off the chilly air. He recounted the events of the day – meeting the monks and novices who had been welcoming so far, attending Castiel’s classes and hearing about Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas, sitting in the quiet refectory and eating in silence for the first time in his life – and relived his excitement over the prospect of learning something new every day and maybe making new friends.

At long last, his mind came back to the reason he came here. His father’s face and the lines of malcontent that had deepened to permanent furrows in the last month rose to the center of his thoughts. If John was right, Dean wouldn’t find any friends or solace here. He was tainted beyond redemption, the son of a sinner, destined for the same path.

All of a sudden, the hall around him seemed too big, vast and empty, and the hopeful anticipation that had filled him only moments before turned sour. His eyes burned with unshed tears. The soft sounds of sleeping boys around him should have been a comfort, but he couldn’t help feeling utterly alone. His throat constricted and Dean turned his face into the coarse fabric of his blanket to stifle a sob. When Garth came around to wake them for vigil, he hadn’t slept at all.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the next chapter. I'd love to hear how you like it.

Dean fell into the rhythm of the monastery with ease. The early services were challenging, but he learned to value the cold and the hard floor of the church quickly – they kept him awake and made coming back to his cot even sweeter.

And he liked the singing, even if he would never admit it. When the chorus of young voices echoed through the church, it left a feeling of togetherness, a common bond, that Dean hadn’t had at home in a long time. And so he sang, loud, with all his heart and his eyes closed. The “Gloria” had always been his favorite, even as a child. The melody rising up and down, clear, full of hope and purity, let him step out of himself and his sorrows for a while. When the last notes trailed off, Dean opened his eyes again and felt refreshed.

More often than not, he found Castiel staring at him, with a crease between his brows and a soft smile on his lips. The expression was a contradiction just like Castiel himself. He had been friendly but reserved when they had met two days after Dean’s arrival to discuss his education. Dean had told him what he had told Father Robert and empathized the fact that he was willing to work hard to make up for his advanced years. Castiel had listened and nodded and looked at his hands that lay flat on the table in the study hall. Dean was used to people facing him when he talked. Castiel’s behavior made him nervous.

“I suggest you’ll visit my regular classes for now. Five hours a day are slated for individual silent study. You have to work on your Latin and start with Greek.”

Castiel spoke slowly and formed his words with care. Dean had never met anyone who seemed to cherish language so much. He nodded, and added a quiet “yes” because he wasn’t sure if Castiel could see the movement. Castiel finally lifted his head and fixated a point over Dean’s right shoulder.

“That will be all, Dean. I’ll see you in class.”

 

+++

 

Usually, languages were learned by reading. The students recited the texts until they knew them by heart and then read on their own and recognized the words on paper. After years of repetition, they were finally able to write those words. Castiel had a different approach. He taught them the letters and let them write words as soon as they heard them. Dean caught up fast thanks to this method, because he already knew the letters and had had to read lists and orders since he had been a small child. The thought of someday being able to discover the precious books of the library on his own made him dizzy with anticipation. He worked hard and used every free minute to practice.

Summer went by in a daze. Between classes, silent repetition, services and the tasks Father Robert assigned him to, Dean barely had time to think. He liked that, because being busy trumped being alone with his thoughts any day.

Ellen ruled over the kitchen with absolute power, but she had a soft spot for Dean, so working for her didn't turned out half bad. Dean loved the warmth and the smells of the kitchen – it felt more like a home than the house he'd grown up in.

His memories of the years with his mom were clouded. She had died in fire when he was ten years old. John Winchester had always been a man of strong opinions and rigid rules, but the events that led to and the death of his wife had hardened him into an even harsher version of himself.

When Ellen’s rough laughter droned through the hallway to the cellar, Dean realized that he couldn’t remember when he had last heard such a sound at home. He grabbed the burlap sack full of onions tighter and swung it over his shoulder before he reached the narrow staircase.

 

+++

 

Castiel took a few hours out of his busy schedule to tutor Dean on all the topics that hadn’t been part of his education but were assumed for any student at the monastery. Latin, bible studies and catholic law filled their Thursday afternoons.

Castiel was a good teacher, patient but full of enthusiasm for his topics. Dean was impressed by Castiel’s vast knowledge and his willingness to consider every perspective before he made up his mind. As a soon-to-be-monk, this open-mindedness seemed like another contradiction in Castiel’s character. One afternoon, Dean asked him about it.

“I’m going to be a monk because God gave us the ability to learn and achieve knowledge about his works. The world he created is astounding – how can I serve him better than by trying to understand it? By studying the works of the great minds that came before us and entering a – one-sided – discussion with them?”

Dean had never thought about it like that. “Do the other clerics see it that way, too?,” he asked tentatively.

The small lift at the right corner of Castiel’s mouth didn’t qualify as a smile. If it had, Dean would have called it sad and bitter.

“No, I’m afraid not, Dean. Most people don’t see it that way. They want a clear guideline for their life, they want others to tell them what is right and what is wrong. I can’t fault them for it. Sometimes it’s easier to just follow a rule without asking if it’s a good one.”

Dean watched Castiel closely. He caught himself doing that more often. Castiel’s gaze was cast down, his brows drawn together. Dean couldn’t even begin to imagine what thoughts and ideas whirled through that quick and clever head. But he wanted to know. Was Castiel afraid of anything? Did he sometimes dream of another life? Did he sometimes wish he was like the others who didn’t ask questions all the time?

They sat like that for a long time, both of them lost in their own minds. As much as Dean enjoyed talking to Castiel and listening to his lectures, he liked those silent moments the most. With autumn approaching, the sun set earlier now. When the creeping shadows of the buildings reached the spot they had chosen for their meetings, Castiel got to his feet and held out a hand to help Dean up. Dean grabbed it with the distinct feeling that something had shifted between them.

 

+++

 

While Dean began to think of Castiel as a friend more than a teacher, Castiel kept up his stiff demeanor. Dean didn’t mind as much since he behaved like that around everybody. He made it his mission to crack the demure façade, though.

“So Garth told me a joke the other day.”

Castiel’s answer consisted in a stern look. Dean ignored it and rambled on.

“Okay. Listen. It’s a curiosity that hangs by its master’s thigh, under his cloak. It’s pierced through in the front, stiff and hard. Sometimes the man pulls his robe up over his knee, because he wants to poke the head of it into a familiar hole he has often filled before. What is it?”

Castiel squinted at him. He looked like a bird contemplating the meaning of life. Dean smiled, waiting for the penny to drop. Cas kept squinting.

“A key?” he asked after a while. “I don’t know what you find funny about that.”

Dean let his head sink into his palms.

“No, Cas. I mean yes, but… nevermind.”

The riddle had led to roaring laughter the evening before. Dean debated explaining it, but a surge of unease held him back. Suddenly it felt like a good idea to change the topic. He let his eyes drift over the open book in front of them, searching for something to say instead.

“Did you just call me Cas?”

“Oh. Uhm, yes, I did. Sorry. It’s just that Cas-ti-el is so formal and I thought… I think Cas suits you better, but I’ll…”

“No,” Castiel… Cas interrupted him. “I like it.”

 

+++

 

October had been exceptionally warm and the trees had held on to their green leaves longer than Dean could remember. The woods around the monastery just slowly took on their red and yellow and brown colors. After a long day, he slumped onto his cot with a sigh.

The peasants that worked in the fields around them brought in the last harvest: kale and carrots mostly. Dean had to count the new additions to the stocks for the winter and put them where Ellen wanted them stored. His back ached after having carried crate after crate down into the root cellar. Exhausted, he fell into an uneasy sleep.

“Dean? What…? Dean!”

A voice drifted slowly into his perception.

Next came the cold, a chill so deep his limbs felt heavy with it. A hand burned on his shoulder.

“Wake up!”

Dean’s eyelids were heavy, too. He blinked them open slowly and a blurred face came into view.

“What are you doing here? You’re ice cold.”

The burning hands moved over him, rubbing his arms, pulling him up into a sitting position.

“Hmmmnnn?” Dean tried to focus on the face, the voice, the hands. The hands most of all. Nobody had touched him for so long now. It felt nice despite the unbearable heat. He turned his body towards it and sighed.

His eyes adjusted. Castiel crouched in front of him, his face a mask of concern. Soft light came from the dozen candles in the altar room. They gave Castiel a soft halo and Dean had to smile at the image. Cas had the face of an angel, he thought, a compassionate and intelligent being that could not be fully understood by a mere human like Dean.

“Are you a somnambulist?” Cas asked.

“Sleepwalker,” Dean replied and shook his head to clear it. Now that Cas’ administrations had brought the blood flow back into his limbs, his teeth began to chatter. He wound his arms around his legs and curled into a tight ball. Castiel’s hand left him for a second, before he seemed to make up his mind and put it back on Dean’s back to keep rubbing.

“My da-d alwa-ys s-said it’s be-because I’v’ go-t a dem-mon in m-me,” Dean told Cas through the tremors.

The motions stopped and Dean looked up. He could see that Cas tried to school his features, but there was fear beneath the leveled gaze. Cas’ eyes wandered over Dean before coming to rest on a point over his shoulder. The fact that he wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes hadn’t bothered Dean in the last months. Now it hurt again.

“A few scholars believe it to be the effect of an overactive imagination and deep emotions,” Cas told him in a voice that betrayed his unease.

“And what do the others think?”

Cas didn’t answer for a long time. Dean nudged him with his right foot. He tried for a light tone.

“Tell me.”

“It’s a sign of evil,” Cas murmured, “a curse caused by unconfessed sins.”

The words worked like a punch into the gut and cut through the dreamlike atmosphere. Dean recoiled and struggled to come to his feet, away from Cas who stared at him with a mix of pity and superstitious fear. Dean turned and quickened his unsteady pace when he heard steps behind him.

“Dean, wait.”

He reached the door to the courtyard and leaned his head against it, defeated. He breathed in the familiar smell of incense and mold and human perspiration that had sunk into every surface of the old church. It clung to their clothes after the service.

“Dean.”

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“Father Robert told me.”

“My mother, she - she was an adulteress. She… fornicated with three men before my father found out.”

“Dean, you don’t have to…”

“Let me say this, please. You should know. I’m tainted. I’m the son of a sinner.”

He turned around and squared his shoulders.

“It’s in my blood. You should keep away from me. I’m here because my father thought the monastic life would cleanse me, but it’s not working. The evil in me… it’s still there.”

He patted his chest where his heart beat like a drum.

Cas reached out but Dean ducked away.

“Don’t touch me.”

The outstretched hand hovered between them before Cas let it sink back to his side. He looked heartbroken.

“This is not my province, I’m afraid. But I firmly believe that no soul is irredeemable. And I… I don’t think you are evil, Dean.”

His last words were barely more than a whisper and Dean strained to hear them, he needed to hear them, grabbed them like a life line. He started shaking again, not from the cold this time, but from the emotional turmoil and the overwhelming feeling of gratitude. Against better knowledge, Cas had faith in him. That had to count for something.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Cas opened his mouth to say more but his lips fell shut a second later. He reached around Dean to open the door and beckoned him forward. Dean ached with the urge to wrap his arms around his friend and hug him, to feel his warmth and comfort, but he didn’t dare ask for it.

A curse, Cas had said. The explanation made sense. Dean felt the stain on his soul like a physical thing. He couldn’t trust the snake of longing that begged for another touch. Cas would do well to stay away from Dean, because Cas was everything light and wise and clean –

“Go to bed, Dean. We can talk tomorrow.” Cas’ words came in a whisper, layered with emotions Dean couldn’t put a name on. He felt bone weary all of a sudden and turned to trudge back to the dormitory. Clouds swallowed the light of the stars and threw a muddy grey blanket over the new moon when he stumbled across the yard.

Cas didn’t follow him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

The next day, Dean started his research. He wanted to know everything there was to know about sin and how to defeat it.

He started visiting the classes of Brother Zachariah, an older monk, whose chosen field revolved around those exact questions. Zachariah was a sturdy man with mean little eyes and a deep hatred for every kind of ungodly behavior, most of all everything sexual. Like everyone else, he had heard about Dean’s family history and his face lit up with a nasty glint when he found Dean in his class.

“Women,” he spat out as soon as each of the ten students were seated. He paced the length of the room with his arms on his back. “You have to be aware of their deviousness. Don’t look at them, and if you cannot circumvent direct interaction, do not look into their eyes. That’s where the sin lies. The female gaze has the power to send out rays that tempt even the strongest men.”

Dean felt Zachariah’s attention on him.

“Most women do not even do this on purpose. It’s the curse of Eve. The chaste ones cast down their gaze when men are around. The jaded ones, the witches and adulteresses, on the other hand ...”

He made a dramatic pause and stopped his restless wandering.

“They can be recognized by their unabashed staring.”

Zachariah went on and on about the weakness of the flesh and the various ways to jeopardize one’s soul. Over the next weeks, Dean learned about the teachings of famous scholars on the matter and he couldn’t help but find a lot of them lacking.

On a cold morning in February, Zachariah addressed a new topic. A house full of adolescent boys led to one problem in particular.

“As is written in the Canons of Theodore: ‘If he defiles himself, he is to abstain from meat for four days. If he is a boy and does it often, either he is to fast twenty days...”

The students around him grew restless, even more than at the beginning of the class when some of them had clearly pictured being the target of the feminine rays of temptation. Now Dean could only chuckle. He had known the desires Zachariah spoke of for quite some time before he came here, and if his experiences were anything to go by, half of the monastery’s residents would never eat meat again.

At night the rustling of blankets and muffled moans whispered through the halls of the dormitory. Dean had no illusions about the source of those sounds. While the chilling terror of last night still reverberated through his bones, now, in clear daylight, he just couldn’t believe that Zachariah’s verdict was a good one, or even viable.

Sin, he had always thought, had to be something that hurt somebody, that jeopardized your soul because what you did was evil. Why should this indulgence, that he was sure was more than common amongst young men, be wrong? He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud until Zachariah’s massive body filled his line of vision completely. The monk looked down at him with pure hatred in his eyes.

“I am aware that we can’t presume a person with your background to understand this, but I will try to explain the matter in simple words.”

He turned to the class, lifting a pointed finger.

“God made men in his image and created women to serve and please them. They were given the gift of reproduction, which is to be used solely for this purpose. Every other kind of encounter is sodomy and an act against nature.”

The accusing finger found Dean.

“You should do well to remember that, given your family’s history.”

Zachariah’s voice rose into an agitated, high pitch and deep red blotches crept up his feisty neck. Dean cowered under the lecture. He had forgotten that the other tutors didn’t enjoy questions and discussion as much as Cas.

“Yes, I understand, brother Zachariah,” he mumbled, trying to look demure.

“I don’t think you do,” the monk shot back. “You will fast with bread and water for the next five days and spend your free hour in the chapel, contemplating the nature of sin and the grave danger your soul is in.”

Dean’s stomach constricted at the thought of the hard work that lay ahead in the next days and the prospect of doing it nearly without any food. The black fast, as they called it, allowed only a small piece of bread and water. Five days were a long time with such tiny provisions.

The urge to speak up, to challenge Zachariah clenched his fists, but he knew it would be useless and might result in an even harsher penalty. He sealed his mouth and forcefully relaxed his hands, head bowed, and nodded.

 

+++

 

The chapel was set at the back of the school building. It didn’t live up to the name, a small room with narrow slates, a stone slab with a wooden cross - dark with age, no benches, just cold hard stone floor and enough space for three people to kneel. And that was what they came here for. The chapel was a place for punishment and wallowing in your mistakes.

The cold floor sent icy tendrils up from his knees into his thighs. All the blood had left his feet – he hadn’t felt them in half an hour. His interlaced fingers hurt from being held up for so long and his shoulders burned. Still, Dean didn’t move.

He had set out to defeat the sin in his veins, the inherited evil. He had been arrogant in the face of Zachariah’s older years and better education. How could he know that the monk had been wrong? Pride was a deadly sin just like the lust his mother had bequeathed to him.

And maybe Zachariah was right, and the slightest opening would be used to tempt him. A look could be the first step on his road to hell. To touch another person, however well intended, would corrupt them and him, Dean feared.

Cas had meant to soothe him in a frightening situation a few weeks ago, and Dean had reveled in the warmth and the closeness like some wanton bitch. Disgusted by himself, he gripped his hands tighter and bowed his head until the tendons in his neck screamed. He could still tell exactly where Cas’ hands had lain on his back, how they had moved and centered him.

Even now he hoped they could be this close again. When he let his mind drift, it fled to images of him and Cas in a tight embrace, keeping each other warm and safe. Their closeness hadn’t felt wrong. Their friendship was grounded in this comfort.

No, the women were the ones Dean had to fear. All the sinful females that corrupted with their gazes and their looks, just like his mother had. She had ruined the life not only of her husband but that of her son, too. And Dean would never forgive her for that.

 

+++

 

Every day for the next four days Dean spent an hour on his knees, hungry, cold and with bruised skin. Every single one of these hours he cursed his mother and prayed for guidance to avert the same fate. Every hour led his thoughts to Cas and how he seemed the only living soul that really cared for Dean.

They didn’t talk much in these days. Dean stayed on his own and kept his head down, hungry and bone tired because he didn’t sleep well with an empty stomach. The others gave him space, they offered encouraging smiles but didn’t start a conversation. Dean was thankful for that. He wouldn’t be good company anyway with his dark thoughts and whirling emotions.

 

+++

 

On the fifth day, Cas came to his cot way after midnight with a bowl of hot soup and a few pieces of stale bread. He sat on the ground next to Dean’s bed while Dean delved into the food and moaned around the first spoonful of tasty bean stew. He felt Cas’ eyes on him but didn’t look up until he finished.

Going for a cheeky smile, he thanked his friend. Dean couldn’t be sure, in the dark of the dormitory and the light of the single candle Cas had brought, but he could have been blushing.

Cas whispered, “Zachariah told us about the class and the reason for your punishment. You should practice yourself in humility, Dean.”

Dean cleared his throat but didn’t answer right away.

“You taught me to question what others present as truth. I don’t think I understand most of the rules he taught us. So many of them seem arbitrary.”

“Do you have an example?” Cas asked, clearly unable to stop his inquisitive mind. Dean had to smile.

“Let’s see. Why is prostitution accepted and even encouraged, when… uhm… one can take care of the matter… you know… alone? I don’t see what’s so bad about it?”

Cas’s head sank even lower between his drawn up shoulders and Dean felt bad for even asking him. Yes, Cas had wanted to know, but Dean knew these issues made him uncomfortable and he wasn’t well versed in these questions either. It was just that Cas was the only one that would discuss his question without shutting him down by naming an ancient scholar and be done with it.

“Prostitution is tolerated to prevent men from committing even greater sins, as far as I know.”

Cas rubbed his neck.

“Aquinas said that every sexual act other than the copulation of the male and female organ as sin.”

He drew a deep breath. His voice sank even lower, Dean could barely make out what he said.

“That is why, as far as I know, certain other kinds of release are deemed more sinful than laying with a prostitute.”

“And what do you think?” For some reason, Dean needed to hear Cas’ thoughts on this.

“I think lust clouds men’s minds. Just like power, it bends their morals and impairs their judgement. So I understand why it’s seen as sin, as an invitation for evil forces. For that reason, I agree with the scholars – any act committed not with the clear goal of procreation should be avoided.”

Cas reached for the bowl and the candle. He rose to his knees, coming eye to eye with Dean, only an inch of cold air between them.

“It’s almost time for vigil. I should go.”

Dean felt his throat tighten all of a sudden. Unable to get a word out, he nodded. When Cas was gone, he didn’t even know what he would have said.

 

+++

 

Later that night, he touched himself. Maybe out of spite for Zachariah and his rules, maybe because he wanted to feel good for a brief moment. Or maybe because he still felt dizzy and confused after the talk with Cas.

He kept his movements slow and even to not attract attention. When the first drops beaded from the tip and eased the strokes, he tightened his grip. Sweat broke out on his back, between his thighs and on his temples, creating a cool counterpoint to the heat in his groin.

The pressure built until his heart thumped furiously and he had to sink his teeth deep in his bottom lip to keep quiet.

Suddenly he felt sure that everyone around him knew what he was doing. A hundred eyes, judging and secretly coveting at once.

Cas looking down at him, brow furrowed.

The idea should have terrified him, but instead it made his hips stutter and then ripped a low groan from his mouth before he spilled over his hand.

_No meat for me_ , he thought with a bitter kind of humor. His fight against sin seemed lost before the first attack.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the nice comments!! Your feedback really means a lot!

 

 

Dean stopped visiting Zachariah’s classes after that and went back to his former curriculum.

Cas concentrated on logic even more than usual, and although Dean’s brain hurt from the twists and turns of the arguments, he enjoyed challenging his mind. At the moment, they learned about the arguments for God’s existence, and Cas’ eyes shone with enthusiasm when they came to the ontological argument. He stood in front of the class and rubbed his hands together is if he was about to take the first bite out of a tasty pie.

“We can define God as the perfect being, do you agree?”

The students nodded, some whispered “yes”.

“Is ‘the perfect being’ and ‘something which we cannot even think better’ the same?”

More nodding.

“And in our everyday life, what would you say is better: something that exists or something that doesn’t exist? I brought an apple for this. This apple is better than an apple that doesn’t exist, right?” He smiled when Jo agreed wholeheartedly, and threw the apple over to him. “I’m sure you can make it disappear, Jo.”

Jo bit into the apple with a wide grin splitting his face. Cas waited for the small ruckus to calm down.

“So if someone says ‘God doesn’t exist’, we can say that the God that exists is better, more perfect than the one that doesn’t exist, right?”

All eyes were on him, eagerly nodding.

“And we said, God is the perfect being that cannot even be thought better. But we can think of a better being than the nonexistent God.”

He made a pause and opened his hands invitingly. The warm morning light caught on his skin and the clear lines of his face. Not for the first time, Dean thought he looked like the gracious saints in the books. Now his eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Ergo?” Cas asked.

“God exists,” the students shouted.

Dean kept quiet. Into the subsequent silence he mumbled, “This sounds like a trick.”

Cas’ face turned and he came over to stand in front of him.

“Can you tell us why you think that, Dean?”

“I don’t know. It feels like a trick. I can’t put my finger on it.” His temples pounded with the concentration, but he couldn’t tell Cas what bugged him about the argument.

“Take your time to think it through and tell me if you found the problem. The same applies for all of you. We are not discussing these arguments to disprove them, but if we find flaws, we should talk about them.” He turned and went back to the front of the room. “Now, to the different versions of this argument. The most prominent goes back to Anselm of Canterbury, an Italian cleric...”

While Cas dived into his lecture about the famous Anselm, Dean’s mind itched with the feeling that they missed something.

 

+++

 

His reading improved rapidly, and he was able to follow the basic Greek lectures now. As much as Cas admired scholars like Anselm and Augustinus for their clear minds and rational thinking, Dean liked the Greeks more. Father Robert gave Cas a lot of freedom concerning his subject matter, so they practiced Greek not only with the ancient philosopher but also on the tragedies.

So in his free time, Dean fled reality and fought wars at the side of Agamemnon, cried over Iphigenia’s sacrifice and he suffered with Prometheus on his rock. When Cas found him in the library one afternoon with tears drying on his cheeks, he smiled softly and told him crying was good for the soul, before he touched his shoulder lightly and went to find a book for himself.

Dean saw the characters of the old plays in his mind and he wished he could somehow bring them to life and show them to others. The tragedies weren’t illustrated like the religious tomes, and he lamented the fact. When he told Ellen one day about his desire to create images of the scenes in his mind, her brow furrowed.

“That’s a wonderful idea, Dean, but you know how precious parchment is. They won’t even give you the scraped ones to try your hand.” The hard lines of her face softened with compassion.

“I know,” Dean sighed.

After a second of thought, Ellen turned to the fireplace and took a piece of wood. She went over to the big table to get one of the small knifes and brought both back to him.

“If you can’t draw them, maybe you can carve them?”

Dean reached out and took the offered goods.

“I… I could try, I guess.”

Ellen smirked and her tone fell back into the usual grumpiness. “Well, not now. Bring the new ham to the meat cellar, will you?”

 

+++

 

Dean and Cas didn’t talk about the strangely intimate moments they had shared at night, but their bond grew stronger even without words. In March, Cas found Dean sleepwalking again, and he led him back to the dormitory. In a hushed voice he assured Dean that he wasn’t possessed, that his mind just worked differently from others, and Dean tried to believe him.

Ellen gave more tasks and more responsibilities to Dean. Come summer, he took the carriage and his own horse, which had been given to the monastery by his father, to the nearby village, and traded goods on the market. The monks produced most vegetables and fruit themselves. They sold the excess and bought meat, fish and salt from the local merchants. Father Bobby and Ellen had undertaken the journey every Wednesday until now. Dean felt a warm surge of pride at being trusted with such an important responsibility.

Wednesday mornings became his favorite just after Thursday afternoons, which he still spent with Cas. Dean didn’t need the mentoring anymore since he had long caught up with the other students, but neither of them pointed that out. When autumn drew nearer and dusk came earlier, Dean fell back into his brooding mood. Cas picked up on it instantly.

“You never speak of her,” he observed one day. “Maybe it would help.”

Dean didn’t ask who he meant. Cas had a way so see right through him, and it should have made him wary, but if he was being honest with himself, he liked the thought.

“What do you want to know?” Dean didn’t want to sound defensive but he couldn’t help it.

“It’s not about what I want to know, Dean. It’s… Maybe it would help you if you talk about what happened to your family…” Cas let the suggestion rest between them.

Dean’s head spun. He didn’t want to think about it, but he still woke up at night drenched in sweat, unable to remember the dream, but he was sure his mother had been in it. The other boys told him about their families and how much they missed them, and Dean felt hollow and alone. Since not talking hadn’t made anything better, maybe telling Cas would?

“My dad has always been… well… principle and discipline are very important for him. He says the family business can only succeed if he leads with an iron hand. No taking the Lord’s name in vain, no loud laughing. Everyone in the family had their tasks to do and mistakes… uhm, you do well not to make them.”

He took a breath and looked down at his hand. Fine lines still marked the places were the riding crop had landed when he had miscounted the day’s earnings.

“My mom… I don’t remember much of how she looked. It’s one image, mostly, and I sometimes think I dreamt it. She’s cutting bread and then she smiles and touches my head. It’s… disorienting.”

Cas sat next to him. So close that Dean’s side felt warmer, so close he could smell him, herbs and fresh sweat and a hint of old books. Dean breathed the familiar mix in and took comfort in it.

“She died in a fire when I was ten years old. I didn’t know what she had done before and I guess my dad didn’t either. She had met another man and lain with him. We learned later that there were others before that.” His voice dropped into a whisper, and his cheeks heated with shame.

Cas stayed silent for a long time. Dean eyed him from the side, unsure if his friend was appalled by his confession or disgusted that Dean still had good memories of her. Cas’ face looked thoughtful, though. At last, he spoke.

“Did she love this other man?”

“How should I know? Maybe? What does it matter? She broke her promise before God and she betrayed her family.”

Cas shook his head. “I don’t know much about these things and I know what the law says, but I am convinced that the reason why people do something is important. At least for me, it makes a difference if someone steals because he’s greedy or if he steals because he’s hungry.”

Dean had never thought about that. The law was the law, and a crime was a crime, and someone had to pay for it. The next question lay on his tongue like lead. “Do you think God sees the difference?”

Cas hung his head. “I hope so,” he murmured, and it sounded sad in Dean’s ears.

They sat like that for minutes, before Cas spoke up again.

“Why now?” he asked, and when Dean shot him a confused look, he elaborated. “Your mother died when you were ten, but your father sent you here last year.”

“Ah.” Dean fiddled with a loose thread on his habit. “I… I have a brother.”

Cas’ head snapped up. “You never told me that.”

“He ran away a few weeks before I was sent here. He had huge argument with my dad, said he didn’t want to become a merchant. He went to school a few years, since I could help with the daily work. His teacher got him a scholarship in Oxford. My father forbade it, and said Sam’s insolence was a sign of evil. After he was gone, my father never mentioned his name again. I… I try not to think too much about it.”

Dean saw his hands trembling. He had focused all his anger on his mother for so long that he somehow hadn’t realized how much he missed his brother. Now the ache came back with so much force it took his breath away. He pressed his shaking hands against his ribs, suddenly dizzy.

“Put your head between your knees and try to breathe shallowly,” Cas told him, concern clear in his voice. Dean obeyed and waited for the fog to clear. Cold sweat broke out on his neck. _How had he cut his brother from his mind?_

Cas’ hand came to his back. He couldn’t think of anything more grounding. Cas told him that everything was alright and that a loss can confuse people’s minds. Dean felt tears run down his cheeks and the vice around his chest loosened. He leaned his head onto Cas’ shoulder and whispered, “I can’t forgive her. She took away my mother and she took away my brother. And now I’m all alone.”

Cas hummed a soft tone, not quite an affirmation. “A lot has been taken from you, I agree. But in one respect you are wrong, Dean.”

Cas waited for him to lift his head.

“You are not alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gives a glimpse into scholastic philosophy. I always enjoyed these kinds of arguments, so I wanted to have one in the story. The ontological argument is one of the most prominent arguments in the history of philosophy and was famously discussed by Anselm, René Descartes and Immanuel Kant. I highly recommend looking it up if you like logic and riddles.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Winter dragged on forever. Dean loved winter days with blazing white snow and he could live with the bitter cold days when the land lay frosted and sparkling under a clear sky. What they got instead, from November to March, were dark clouds full of fine rain and insistent mist that creeped into every room. The constant moisture made him sick – literally, too, so he spent Christmas and the first week of January in his bed, coughing and sweating and feeling sorry for himself.

Cas didn’t seem to be affected like the other brothers. He brought his books to Dean’s sickbed during his study hours and read to him to pass the time. Dean was thankful for the distraction. Not being able to move and being alone for long hours made him grumpy and miserable.

Ellen came once a day, too, to bring Dean hot chicken soup. When he could sit again, she gave him a few pieces of cherrywood and the small knife. Dean’s fingers were clumsy and weak, but after a few days he was able to carve the wood into small figures. He had seen a chess game on the table of one of the rich costumers his dad used to visit, and he remembered feeling pure awe at the intricate little statues. Since he had no idea how the game worked and what stones would be required, he asked Cas to look it up for him. Cas’ eyes widened with instant curiosity: he didn’t know the rules either and he positively beamed with excitement to learn something new.

Dean started with the easy ones, a rook and a bishop. When they turned out recognizable, he challenged himself with the queen and the king. Cas went searching for more cherrywood and asked Ellen for some brighter wood too, since they would need two sets to play. The project occupied their free time and their minds while Dean got better and could finally go back to his daily chores and classes.

Dean kept the figures simple but different enough to discern. By end of February, he surprised Cas with the finished set for their usual Thursday afternoon meeting. Cas had the more strategic mind, so he won most of the time. Dean, on the other hand, learned to anticipate Cas’ plans by watching him.

He wondered how he could ever have thought of Cas’ face as static and inscrutable. After nearly two years, he knew to look for the subtle movements. Dean could read every hint of a smirk and the probably involuntary lift of his lips that followed Dean’s lewd jokes. And so he noticed the smug little tilt of Cas’ mouth or the almost inconceivable squint that told him Cas was sure he would win the round, and Dean would be oh so careful to overthink his next move. Sometimes it worked, and he figured out what Cas planned soon enough to discomfit it.

Spending time with Cas came naturally to him, but he never became accustomed to their friendship like he did with Garth or Jo. Cas’ brilliant mind posed a constant challenge and made Dean want to get better, learn harder, not to best his friend but to keep up with him. When Dean spent time with others, he just forgot himself for a few hours, bantering and laughing.

With Cas, every encounter was laced with a tension he couldn’t put a name on, that made every minute together special. He found it irked him to no end when they were interrupted in their chess games or their conversations. If he had allowed himself a closer look at those feelings, he would have recognized them as jealousy.

 

+++

 

Come summer, Dean persuaded Cas to accompany him on his weekly tour to the village. Cas pointed out that he had more important things to do and that the trip would be an indulgence unworthy of a Cleric, but in the end, he was unable to say no to Dean.

On their way back, Dean stopped the carriage in the middle of an empty stretch of road and hopped down, grinning at Cas before he ducked into the bushes.

Dean steered Cas through the undergrowth, ignoring his demands to know where they were headed. Cas still complained about the leaves and vines on his habit when Dean stopped and waited for his friend to lift his head. Cas did and Dean reveled in the little gasp that followed.

The small lake lay hidden behind trees, invisible from the road. Sunlight filtered through the trees and sparkled on the quiet surface of the pond. Willows curled over the water and formed alcoves full of shadows. A small stripe of soft green grass lay between the forest and the shore. Dean remembered his awe at the beauty of it all when he had first stood here. He knew Cas would feel the same.

“Why… why did you bring me here?” Cas stammered now, all eloquence gone.

“Because I thought you’d like it. And to go for a swim.”

Dean took a few steps onto the grass, opened his belt and gripped the hem of his robe. Looking back, he saw Cas standing in the same spot.

“Come on, Cas, the water will be perfect.”

And with that he pulled the cloth over his head and ran over the shore, leaping into the water in one swift motion. He swam to the middle of the lake and treaded water. Cas still hadn’t moved.

“If you’re not in the water in ten seconds, I’ll come out and get you,” Dean threatened.

That got Cas’ attention. He reached for his belt and Dean, aware of Cas’ discomfort, turned around while he undressed. A minute later, splashing indicated that Cas had joined him in the water.

Dean swam over to the other end of the lake and came back to find Cas in nearly the same spot.

“You are a very good swimmer,” Cas said.

Dean shrugged. “I always liked it. How do you feel?”

“Clean and cool,” Cas smiled.

 

+++

 

They swam rounds without talking much. From the corner of his eyes, Dean admired Cas’ exact movements and the way his skin moved over his muscles. He had never seen him undressed and was surprised to find him so well built.

When they got cold, Dean suggested getting out of the water and letting the sun dry them before they returned back on the road. Cas left the water first and Dean, in a sudden burst of mischief and because he had always done this with his brother, ran to follow him and tackled him from behind.

They fell onto the wet grass. As soon as they landed, Dean realized his mistake.

Cas’ clammy skin grew hot under him in seconds. Dean felt like he had fallen into burning embers, fire scalding his front and coursing through him to pool deep in his groin.

Cas’ body tensed and then fell limp.

Dean, completely overwhelmed by the contact, only had one conscious thought, _this is wrong_ , and it overran his every other instinct screaming to be noticed. He pushed up to give Cas room to move.

Cas turned. He had spread his arms wide and dug his fingers into the soil. His breath came hard and fast. Long lashes fanned out from his closed lids, still adorned by tiny water drops that twinkled like gems in the sunlight. He reminded Dean of the ancient martyrs in the engravings of their most precious books. Cas’ face was a mask of pain and bliss and Dean’s body trembled with a sudden need to wipe that mask away to see what was underneath, what Cas was hiding from him.

And while he watched his friend, a sudden clarity fell over him and he finally, finally realized what was wrong about Cas’ reluctance to meet his eyes. _That’s how the sin gets in_ , Zachariah had said. Cas had been attending his classes, too, a few years before Dean came to the monastery. Did Cas believe this? Did he think… that Dean was a bad influence? Or did he not trust himself enough to find out what would happen if he let Dean in?

Cas’ chest heaved with his rasping breath and Dean let his gaze drift down his body, over the dark hair between his pec to his ribs and his stomach…

… and lower until he found Cas just as helplessly aroused as he was. His cock was thicker and a bit longer than Dean’s, curving up from his dark patch of pubic hair and moving with his labored breaths. _He wants this_ , Dean thought, and the knowledge settled like a heavy weight in his gut. Dean bit his bottom lip and moaned at the sight of them both, so close, a low pleading sound, begging Cas not to leave him alone in this.

When he rearranged his weight on his hands, the tip of his erection brushed against Cas’. Their still wet skin translated every small movement into a sensual glide and Dean couldn’t help experimenting with it, pushing just a fraction up Cas’ body and his elbows nearly gave out at the sensation of their lengths against each other. Cas tensed again but otherwise didn’t react.

“Open your eyes, Cas, please,” Dean panted. And he knew he wasn’t playing fair, but he curled his hips again and reveled in the shiver that ran through the body under him and the grunt Cas couldn’t hold in.

“Look at me, Cas. I know you want to. I can feel it,” he murmured, shocked by his own brazenness. He knew he would feel shame later for his behavior, but right now Cas’ hot skin and his trembling body filled his whole world. Dean rocked against him slowly, encouraging him to reciprocate. Their cocks slid together once more.

“Please,” Dean whimpered, and Cas, finally, opened his eyes. Blue, darkened by lust, captured Dean’s gaze and held it. Dean had waited so long to have that focus on him, he had dreamed about Cas’ stare and the power it held. Now he wondered if he would drown in it, if Cas would just take away everything he was and replace it with this all-consuming want.

Cas pushed up and turned them around in one quick motion. For a second, Dean was sure that Cas would get up and leave, that this terrifying and new thing between them was lost, and an apology started to form on his lips when Cas surged down and pressed his mouth on Dean’s. Cas hands found his and pressed them into the soft earth while his hips ground down. Dean cried out. Cas swallowed the sound.

Dean had never kissed like this before. His lips opened under the onslaught and he dragged them along Cas’ while their breath mingled. The wetness and the warmth of Cas’ mouth filled his senses, his taste and the small low sounds that vibrated against his slick lips overwhelming him. And then the tip of Cas’ tongue met Dean’s bottom lip and slipped past it.

Dean took a surprised breath before he opened his mouth wider to welcome the intrusion. Cas’ tongue slid over his own and flicked against the sensitive roof of his mouth, eliciting a shudder that crept from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. He didn’t move other than that, gave up control to Cas and his sensual exploration. He hadn’t known he could feel like this. He hadn’t known Cas would give in to this. His whole body hummed with raw desire and the feeling of being taken care of. It was a heady mix, addictive and dizzying.

After a long while of just savoring Cas’ kiss, Dean tentatively started to reciprocate. He moved his tongue to meet Cas’ and circled it. Cas’ grip tightened on Dean’s fingers and Dean took that as a good sign so he tried it again. This time he was rewarded with a low moan. Gaining confidence, Dean explored and teased just like Cas had done before, sliding his tongue against teeth and sucking on Cas’ full lips, while he pushed up against Cas’ hips.

Soon their movements became frenzied, rubbing and rocking against each other, slick with water, sweat and the wetness that leaked from their erections. The next time Cas pushed down and Dean bucked up into the contact, Cas’ cock slipped between Dean’s thighs and he stilled. Dean closed his legs on instinct and ripped his right hand free to sink his fingers into Cas’ scalp, urging him on with his whole body. Dean had no idea what they were doing but it felt perfect and he needed more of it.

Cas gripped Dean’s hips and Dean could pinpoint the exact moment when his last control snapped. Cas buried his face in Dean’s neck and pushed into the tight heat between Dean’s legs hard and fast. Dean’s own cock ground against Cas’ stomach, painting it with precome. He moved to meet Cas’ thrusts. The way the tip of Cas’ erection slid over his perineum ripped a broken moan from his lungs, the sensation foreign and intimate and indescribably _good_.

 _It’s called mortal sin because it feels like dying_ , Dean thought, and Cas whimpered into the skin of his neck before he tensed and came in hot spurts over Dean’s balls and thighs. The thought of Cas’ release dripping from his heated skin, filthy and oh so forbidden, staining and marking him with proof that Cas was just as lost as he was, sent Dean over the edge without warning. Back arched, hands still fisted in Cas’ hair, he threw back his head and cried out. Wave after wave of pleasure had him shaking, while Cas’ body blanketed and tethered him.

Dean pulse slowed down and his breath evened out eventually. Warm and sated, he cherished the moment of peace and the fact that he could share it with Cas. With a silly kind of happiness bubbling through him, at first he thought Cas was laughing when he felt him trembling in his arms.

Cas clutched at his sides and inhaled unsteadily. He wasn’t laughing. Hot tears fell onto Dean’s shoulder and a viscous sob wrecked Cas’ body. Dean wound his arms around him and held tight. He had no words to soothe him. While he watched the soft white clouds pass over the summer sky, Dean drew small circles on Cas’ back and waited for him to cry his heart out.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally found the inspiration to go on with this and will try to finish it over the next weeks. Thank you so much, [Marie](www.dixseptdixhuit.tumblr.com) for the quick beta. I owe you one:-)!

_ 1360 _

The abbot awakes. The night is pitch-black when he circles his neck to loosen the strain between his shoulder blades. He pulls his robe over his thread-bare undershirt and leaves his room. The water in the basin on the dark courtyard is layered with a thin sheet of ice. It crashes with a crystal sound when he dunks in his hands blindly to wash them and splashes some over his face. The cold is biting and his skin tingles when he rubs it dry with the hem of his robe. He pats down his hair and straightens. 

A half-full moon shines weakly over the yard and casts everything in blueish greys and black. This time of night makes it easy to believe there are malign spirits whispering in the darkness, that the superstitious are right to be afraid of the lingering shadows. A gust of wind chases dead leaves of the last autumn along the uneven cobblestones that stretch between the buildings. He huddles deeper into his robe and crosses the yard. 

The church is quiet. He knows the distance to the altar by heart. Twenty steps from the door to the stairs. Two steps up. The abbot lights the candles, watches the8m come to life and flood the church with soft yellow light. Getting up this early was never easy for him. His body needs time to wake up fully and he finishes his tasks in a meditative haze. He is grateful for the time alone. The large cross with the flaking golden paint looms over him as he shuffles from candle to candle, the eyes of the Christ figure follow him through the silent echoing room. When the candles are lit, he sinks to his knees in front of the altar. 

“Dear Lord”, he prays, “I entrust you with these men for their protection. Give me the wisdom to be them a good leader and keep them safe and healthy. Hold your hand over the village. Lead the tempted to a virtuous life, comfort the ones laden with worry and sadness, have mercy with those who stumbled and fell. And, dear God, please send your grace to the ones we lost. Amen.”

The cold seeps up through the fabric of his robes, and his knees ache with it. He is not young anymore, over 30 now, and the hardships of the last ten years have left traces. Food is scarce still, even seven years after the Black Death reluctantly left the country. From the thirty monks and novices that lived together in the monastery, only twelve survived. While the Plague held the country in its merciless grip, they had cared for the sick and opened the gates to the ones who lost their family. When the dead had been buried and their houses burned, they had plowed the fields side by side with the people of the village and rebuilt the houses. The sickness changed the quiet life, broke up the dividing lines between the clergy and the layfolk. 

Rustling interrupts his thoughts. Quiet steps rush along the stone floor, yawns are muffled behind cold hands. His brothers shuffle into the church for vigil. He stands up and bites his lip to keep the grunt in when the blood flows back into his legs with pins and needles. He stands still while the monks find their places, and he watches them kneel down with puffy eyes and slumped shoulders. He knows each face like the back of his hand. He knows about their strengths and weaknesses, the struggles each of them fights in his mind. They are good souls, but like every man, they stumble now and then. He is there to lift them up again and help them find their right path. Their eternal life lies in his hands, and some days the responsibility feels like a yoke around his neck. 

His own battles are fought in secret, as he has nobody to turn to. What transpires in his mind is between him and God. The stains on his soul are old ones, faded into the fabric of his soul so long ago that sometime he can’t say which were there when he was born and which he chose willingly. If he were to confess, he would have to admit that there are some stains he can’t bring himself to regret, even after all this time. That may be his greatest sin. He made his peace with it. His sins are only for God to judge. He will take them to his grave. Nevertheless, he finds solace in the company of his brothers. They will pray together, sing together, and when their voices fill the old church, he will, for a moment, feel less lonely. 

+++

It’s spring, and hard work waits at every corner. The fields have to be made ready for sowing, and the herb garden needs to be weeded, and the well needs to be cleaned and the dormitory needs to be scrubbed. Spring days don’t have enough hours. By midday, he eats a piece of stale bread and drinks a cup of small ale, standing in the sun next to the kitchen. The yard is bustling with activity. 

Brother Benjamin starts whistling a song while he shakes out the rugs, a melody he must have picked up in the village. It’s a lewd ballad about two farmers who lost their wives and decided to share a house and a bed. He should tell Benjamin to stop and chastise him for whistling it, but then he’d have to give away that he knows the song. As the simple melody accompanies the work on the yard, an ache builds in his chest. The bread goes even dryer in the back of his throat and he washes the taste away with the last of his beer. He remember when he first heard the song, sung in a low voice, on a day not unlike this one, when the sun reflected off of too-green eyes that twinkled with mirth and humor. The memory is clear and bright as if only a day has passed. The pain it brings with it is still fresh and biting like knife wound. 

_ Dear God, please send your grace to the ones we lost _ , he mumbles. The melody and the brightness of the day become unbearable. He brings his cup to the kitchen. His hands tremble when he sets it on the table. Shallow breaths mute the piercing sting behind his ribs until it becomes dull again. It won’t go away though, it never does. He leaves the building on the other side, searching for the kind of physical labor that will occupy his mind and wear him out so he will fall asleep from sheer exhaustion. 

+++

A hand on his shoulder stops him in mid-motion when he brings down his spade to cut through the thick roots on the fallow field on the west side of the monastery. He looks up to find Brother Garth’s flushed face. 

“Father,” Garth says, catching his breath, “there are men at the gate. You better come.”

Wiping his hands on his robe, he follows the monk to the yard, as a thousand possibilities run through his head. Are they soldiers? Did something happen in the village? A congregation from the bishop maybe? It has to be important if Garth runs like that to fetch him. 

When they arrive, the other monks are already assembled around the visitors. The crowd divides in front of him. A tall man stands next to a large black horse that carries a body. 

“Are you the abbot?”, the stranger asks. “Please, I need your help. My brother was injured and I didn’t know where else to go.”

Worried murmurs run through the assembled crowd. They would never turn away a person in need. “Of course. Brother Charles, ready a bed in the infirmary. Brother Garth, Benjamin, carry our guest there, carefully. We will do our best to help him,” he assures the newcomer. “May I ask you name?”

“Samuel. Samuel Winchester,” he says. His face is a mask of worry. He seems too preoccupied watching his brother to notice the shock on the abbots face. That name.  _ His brother _ ? Garth and Benjamin lift the unconscious figure from the horse. The man’s head lolls to the side. Blood spatters his blue tunic and the fabric is ripped in several places. A deep gash on his cheek still oozes blood in weak pulses. His eyes are closed, but the cut of the jaw and the lines of his face are unmistakable. His shoulders are broader, his body heavier, but the freckles dusting pale cheeks are the same.

Through the roaring of his blood he hears someone calling his name, as if from the other side of curtain. 

“Father?” the stranger asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you alright?” A hand on his arm steadies him. “I know it’s a lot of blood but he’s strong, I’m sure he’ll make it, he always does, he’s too thick headed to let a knife wound stop him.” The rambling brings him back to his senses. The monks around them disperse and go back to their work, now that the sensation is over and the injured man taken to the infirmary, until he stands alone with the tall man. 

“I know”, he whispers, and feels curious eyes on him. It’s a weird thing to say. 

“You met him? I mean, I knew he stayed here for a year when he was younger but I wouldn’t have thought there would be still someone around who remembers him.” 

“I remember,” he says. His mind should be racing, he should be afraid maybe of what this turn of fate will bring, how much his brother knows, if Dean is more severely injured than Samuel let on. He should think about a thousand things. But his heart is beating in a steady pulse, and the sun is warm on his back, and only two things matter. 

Dean is alive.

Dean is here. 

And for the first time in a long, long time, he feels like he is too. He turns and lets his feet find their way to the building at the other end of the yard. He doesn’t know why Dean came back into his life. It might be a chance to redeem himself. Or he might be tested, again. Just this morning, he had thought his weakness a thing of distant past, his sins unknown by any other human soul. He had been wrong. God sent him both the reason and the witness of his fall. 

Behind those doors lies perdition or salvation. His steps don’t falter either way. He stands quiet at the side of Dean’s bed and waits for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, his heart to slow down. He ignores Charles’ busy examination. For sixteen years, he prayed every day for Dean. Now, his lips don’t move, the words stick in his throat like the stale bread he chewed at noon and that still lies like stones in his belly. He leans forward and brushes Dean’s hair from his forehead with a shaking hand. Over his body, he meets Charles’ curious gaze. 

“Don’t worry, Father. I’ll stitch him up and he’ll be as good as new,” Charles says and leans in to rip Dean’s shirt open. “You shouldn’t have to watch this. I’ll call you when he awakes.” 

He turns and faces the stranger with the long hair and the kind eyes. He sticks out his hand. 

“My name is Castiel,” he says, voice hoarse and straining, as if he hasn’t used it in a long time, as if he had been silent for years and only now relearns to speak. “You and your brother are welcome to stay as long as you need.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, writing feels like pulling teeth atm. I hope the next chapters won't take as long. Unbeta'd - sorry for that, too.

 

The sky had hung low and sickly the day Dean left. Castiel had spent the night in the chapel on his knees, praying without words, his mind twisting and turning with a jumble of emotions. He should have begged God to make it so that the afternoon by the lake had never happened, but he couldn’t ask for something his heart didn’t want. So he had sat in silence, cold and utterly alone. 

He remembers now, can still feel the ache in his knees and the desperation of that night. Still, he can’t wish that he had never met Dean or that he never fell in love with him. 

Castiel sits in the dark beside Dean’s bed and contemplates the nature of sin. 

Sin is send by the devil to deter those who believe, or it is sent by God to test those who doubt. Castiel wonders why and by whom Dean was sent to him. His kindness and his friendship could not have been the work of the devil, he is sure, for Castiel had never before or later met a soul that shone so bright. But if God wanted to test him on that fateful afternoon, Castiel had not passed that test. He had given himself over to the lust Dean’s touch had awoken in him, had experienced bliss beyond everything he had ever felt, and he had fallen even more for a person he had no right to love. 

Castiel endures the penance for that failure to this day. Castiel leads his men and does his duty. He gets up in the middle of the night, he prays, he teaches and tends to the sick. And in quiet moments, when the sun shines bright and the bees tumble drunkenly through the blossoms in the garden, he feels content. But with each of these moments comes the knowledge that real happiness left his life when Dean walked out of the monastery that morning without looking back. 

Dean has not regained consciousness; Charles attributes it to the blow Dean took on his head. A dark bruise marks the spot just below his hairline. He stirs now and then in his sleep, his mouth opens and closes around soundless words, and his eyes move behind his lids as if he’s searching for something. Castiel follows every movement as best he can in the half-light of the room. 

The man before him is unmistakably Dean, from the freckles on his nose to the softness of his expressive lips to the long lashes whispering quietly against his cheeks. But he’s also not Dean. All the boyish features are gone, roughened and straightened into hard lines. Crinkles mark the skin around his eyes, and Castiel hopes that happiness put them there.

He can make out the silver lines of scars on Dean’s neck and on his hands. He reaches out to touch one of the lines on Dean’s wrist. Castiel has no idea who this man is, but his hand recognizes the warmth of Dean’s skin as if not a single day has passed. 

The door behind him whines low in its hinges and careful steps disturb the silence. A hand lands on his shoulder, just a short touch, but comforting nonetheless. 

“How is he?” Samuel whispers. 

“He still hasn’t woken up.” 

Samuel sits down on the other side of the bed. His gaze falls on Castiel's fingers that still touch Dean’s arm, but he doesn’t comment. 

“You two were friends? When he stayed here?”

_ Friends _ is not a word Castiel would use, but there is no better one that could be said out loud, so he hums his confirmation. “Dean was in one of my classes. I had just started teaching and was used to students who didn’t ask many questions.” He smiles. 

“Let me guess, Dean  _ did _ ask.” Samuel looks down at his brother with a rueful smile.

“Yes. Yes he did. He questioned everything. And, in searching for the answers, he broadened my own knowledge. I have to thank him for that.”

They stay silent for a while, and the only sounds in their room are their own and Dean’s steady breaths. Castiel takes back his hand and clasps his palms to stop himself from touching Dean. He should go to bed. He’ll have to get up in a few hours. But he knows he won’t find any sleep tonight. He wonders if Samuel finds it odd that he stays here, but can’t find it in him to care. Now and then, he feels Samuel’s curious gaze on him. Castiel is curious, too. 

“Do you know what happened?”

Samuel leans back on his chair which lets out an angry squeal. Most furniture isn’t made for men as big as Samuel. His face scrunches up at the sound, as if it’s a well-known nuisance. He rakes a hand through his long hair. 

“I don’t know the details. Dean … was found in the bed of member of a rich merchant family and thrown out of the house. A few servants were sent after him to make sure he doesn’t come back. That’s what the innkeeper told me. It was sheer luck that I came by that day. Dean and I wanted to meet up before we visited our father together.”

“He is still alive?” Castiel asks. 

“Yeah, he is. Do you know him?”

“I saw him only once. Dean told me they didn’t have the best relationship.”

Samuel huffs a humorless laugh. “That goes for me too, I guess. John Winchester is not an easy person to be around. But he’s all the family we have left, and it’s our Christian duty to visit him now and then.” He blinks up at Castiel as if he wants to make sure this  _ is _ a Christian duty. Castiel smiles at him. 

“You should care for your family, yes, but I know it’s hard sometimes. We all must learn that parents are only human, and that they, too, make mistakes. I remember Dean telling me that you left home against your father’s wishes?”

“Yes, I did. He never forgave me for that. And I’m pretty sure Dean never forgave me either. He had to live with our father afterwards, and that couldn’t have been easy for him. After our mother died, our father became obsessed with the idea he had to save Dean’s soul. He was adamant, and when he drank, he became violent.” Samuel looks down at his hands and doesn’t meet Castiel eyes. “I don’t know why I tell you that.”

“I’m a priest. People tell me secrets all the time. I guess my own stories are so boring they want to fill the silence with something interesting.” 

Samuel looks up and chuckles before he turns sober again. “Or maybe they feel safe because you are a good listener.”

They look at each other in the dim candlelight. Castiel likes Samuel, feels connected to this man as if they’ve known each other for years. Samuel seems to have the same streak of stubbornness he knows from Dean, having left his home at such an early age to pursue a career against his father’s wishes. Castiel suddenly wishes he could have met their mother, the woman who put everything on the line for love. Had she been happy? Had she found what she was searching for? Had Dean?

The silence expands like it only does in the small hours of the morning, when the quiet world cloaks itself in shadows, humming softly with the anticipation of the next day. 

“The member of the merchant family, it was … was it …?” Castiel stops, because this is not his business, he has no right to ask this question and regrets it the moment his stumbling words left his mouth. He doesn’t even know why it is important all of a sudden, or maybe, he knows but chooses not to look to closely at his motivation. 

Samuel clears his throat. “Yes, it was a man, if that’s what you’re asking.” He squares his shoulders as if he’s headed into a fight, ready to defend his brother against whatever accusations Castiel would hurl at him. Castiel stays silent. The mere notion of condemning Dean seems hypocritical to him. He knows a lot about the human nature - knows about all the small and big sins committed behind closed doors, has heard them all in the confession booth. 

After a few moments of tense silence understanding dawns on Samuel’s face. “Are you…uhm. Are you like him?”

Castiel doesn’t look up. And he doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know what Samuel is referring to. The cold sick feeling in his gut that has been part of his whole life, that soiled so many moments when he feared someone could read his mind and know about his secrets, takes hold now, too. All of a sudden, Castiel is tired of it. He spent the last hours being grateful that Dean - against all odds - came back into his life. 

Samuel’s presence feels warm and understanding. A weight is lifted from Castiel’s shoulders when he realizes that he could for once in his life be truthful. It feels like in this moment, honesty is so much easier than during the day, in the sunlight. God knows his sins already, no need to hide them now. His cold stone is his stomach is still there, but he nods. 

“Hmmm,” Samuel hums. From the corner of his eye, Castiel watches him staple his fingers. When he doesn’t react other than that, Castiel looks up. He braces himself for what he might find in Samuel’s features: disgust, anger, hatred. What he finds instead is Samuel looking down at Dean with a complicated expression that tugs on Castiel’s heart. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a person as brave as my brother. Reckless, too, and way too cocky for his own good. There’s days that I hate him for valuing his freedom and being himself so much more than his safety. Today is one of those, I guess.” He smiles a crooked smile that can’t hide the deep fondness when he looks at his brother. “But I look up to him. He’s one of the best people I know. God tells us we shouldn’t lie, doesn’t he?”

“I have always had the conviction that this is the most unrealistic of the commandments,” Castiel murmurs. 

Samuel watches him intently. “Have you ever…?”

Castiel opens and closes his hands in his lap, remembers digging his fingers into the mud by the lake, and how the sunlight had poured down on Dean’s skin to make it golden. 

“Just once,” he whispers, “just once.”

 


End file.
